Ransom
by C.D.Wofford
Summary: A missing person. Anonymous phone calls. Ransom demands. But this time, John doesn't have Sherlock to lead the investigation. Why? Because Sherlock's the hostage. When the kidnapper begins to send photographs to John as incentive to work faster, will John be able to work out where Sherlock is being held and get to him in time? A little bit dark, but with a happy ending.
1. Anonymous Caller

**Author's Note: I'm afraid you guys might have to be a wee bit patient with this one. I wrote it several years ago; it was actually my first fan-fiction, in any genre that I actually finished. The story is basically from a dream I had after obsessing over Sherlock for weeks. Considering that it's adapted from a dream and I wasn't an experienced writer, it kind of stinks. BUT. It's Friday and I don't have anything else prepared for you guys yet, so I thought I'd take a chance and post it. It's set sometime between seasons 1 and 2. Lemme know what you think!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. Written purely for my own geek-ish delight.**

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><p><strong>Anonymous Caller<strong>

John Hamish Watson, formerly of the British military, trudged down the street on a rainy day in October. The rain was pouring down over London and he had turned his collar up against the freezing gusts of wind that would blow sometimes without warning. It was much too cold for this early in the fall, John thought to himself.

He caught himself limping. Again. He stopped walking and looked around, feeling foolish. People scurried past him on the sidewalk, hurrying to get out of the rain. Black London cabs and other cars splashed on down the street, their windshield wipers clearing the line of sight for the drivers and the bright headlights illuminating the downpour ahead. John walked a few more steps before spotting a coffee shop and stepping inside to get a respite from the continual drizzle and seeping cold.

Captain John Watson had been wounded serving in Afghanistan, and honorably discharged because of it. Though he recovered completely physically, it had taken a while to get over the psychological aspect of the injury. For a while he had suffered from a psychosomatic limp, and even his therapist was making little headway in clearing it up. The war haunted him.

Then he had met Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. Through a mutual acquaintance they found out about each other; both were in need of new quarters, a flat somewhere in London being preferred, but neither could afford such a situation on his own.

Though John could never quite explain how, he found himself moving into a flat with a man he hardly knew the next day, and as a result was caught up in a case the detective was engaged in solving.

John, if he didn't understand him, at least knew Sherlock well by the end of the ordeal, and they two had solved two more cases together, each case having some link to the name "Moriarty". Sherlock had built John's confidence again and helped him get over his unnecessary limp.

But though they had had a run-in with the great mastermind of crime, and barely managed to escape with their lives, all was quiet for now. That, of course, meant the hyperactive Sherlock becoming pessimistic and sarcastic, and as a result very tiresome and hard to cope with.

John had gone out just to escape the house, and Sherlock was out in the city somewhere trying to remedy his boredom and most likely getting himself into trouble, as always. The last time he'd been bored, he'd loaded the wall of his flat with hot lead from his pistol.

"Can I help you?" a young lady behind the counter asked.

"Sure. Mocha Cappuccino," John said, looking forward to the hot drink.

"Cold out there?" she inquired with a smile, observing the water dripping from his short blond hair.

"Oh yeah, definitely. You have no idea."

She handed him the coffee and he laid a few bills on the counter before stepping out into the rain again. He hailed a taxi and told the driver to take him to the nearest library. He wanted to use the internet to get on his blog and update it. It just wasn't a good day to be out.

He watched the drops trailing down his window. Sherlock had said something about a symphony being in town that night. Maybe they could do that this evening…Suddenly his mobile rang. The number was withheld.

"John Watson," he said.

"Hello, John," a strange voice answered. Though the tone was not sinister, chills went up John's spine for a reason he couldn't explain.

"Who is this?" John asked.

"I'm sure you can guess," the voice said, "Now. We have somebody that wants to say hello. Friend of yours, perhaps?" There was a moment of silence.

"John." A different voice. The hair on the back of John's neck stood up.

"Sherlock?"

"Listen, John, don't cooperate. Whatever he tells you, ignore him. I'm fine." Sherlock's voice was unafraid, commanding.

"Sherlock!" There was a crackle on the phone and the first voice came on.

"Yes, none other than the brilliant Sherlock Holmes."

John told the cabby to pull over.

"What do you want?" he said into the phone. His knuckles gripping the mobile were white, and his voice was shaking with tension.

"Ah, now we get to it, don't we? Nothing unnatural, I assure you. But before I get into the details, let me make you more aware of the terms. If you cooperate, this whole thing can go along very smoothly and you will see your friend –or so I may call him- again. Otherwise…"

John held his breath. The voice went on.

"If you don't do what I say…I probably don't have to tell you this, but I'm sure I could find some way to make things very unpleasant for Sherlock and yourself. You'll find his dead body in a matter of hours, left on your front doorstep. Am I understood?"

John swallowed hard.

"What is it you want? If I can do it I will."

"There, you see? That's the spirit. All I require is the modest sum of five hundred thousand dollars."

John choked but said nothing.

"Listen to me. If you bring the cops into this Sherlock is dead. If you try to find me, he is dead. If you fail to come up with the money, he-"

"Is dead, I know," John interrupted, "How long will you give me?"

"One day. After that, well, it gets ugly."

"What do I do when I have it?"

"I'll call tomorrow night. And let's hope you can find it, for both your sakes. Cheerio." And the line went dead.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: So there's the first chapter. *grimaces* Not enough dialogue and too much wordy back-story and description, I think. I saw it very clearly in my head and I wanted to get it across. :P I also think I'm noticing a pattern in my longer Sherlock works where Sherlock is captured and totally useless and John has to rescue him. I might have to do something to correct that in my next story...<strong>

**Anyway, though, do please leave a review! Feedback is always good. And JohnMitchel, if you're reading this, just wanted you to know I been missing hearing from you! You're one of my best commenters, so thanks for all the kind reviews. **


	2. The First Photograph

**Author's Note: The first photograph in the grisly series arrives...can John and Lestrade squeeze some kind of clue out of it? **

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><p>John shakingly put his phone back in his pocket and breathed deeply, calming himself. The cabby had gathered from what he had heard that something was wrong.<p>

"Everything alright?" he asked, with a heavy Cornish accent.

"Take me to Scotland Yard, now. Step on it, man!" John said, urgent though collected. It was common sense not to let the criminal set the terms, and Inspector Lestrade would be more than willing to help since Sherlock had gotten him out of several scrapes before.

An excruciatingly slow ten minutes later, John leapt out of the cab and hurried into the building and made his way to Lestrade's office. He knew the way well. A surprised Lestrade looked up from his desk as he saw John enter. He was on the phone and motioned for John to sit down, but John, with his fists shoved deep in his jacket pockets, paced until Lestrade got off the phone.

"What brings you here?" Lestrade asked, curiously.

"Sherlock's been kidnapped."

"What? You're joking. How do you know?"

"I got a phone call from the kidnapper. I don't know if it's just one man or a lot of them, but he told me if I didn't come up with five hundred thousand pounds I'd find Sherlock's dead body on my doorstep."

Lestrade leaned back in his chair in shock, but still eager not to believe it he asked, "How do you know they really have Sherlock and they're not just bluffing?"

"I heard him. They let him talk to me for just a minute."

"Do you know who the caller was?"

"I think so. The last three cases Sherlock's done all were linked somehow to Moriarty, and in the last case Sherlock, like the idiot he can sometimes be, arranged to meet him. I know you know the rest of the story, but there was something funny about his voice. It was weird and high. The guy on the phone; I couldn't be sure, but I'm pretty sure it was him."

"Moriarty. So what did he tell you to do, exactly?"

"He wants me to somehow get my hands on the money, and he's going to call me tomorrow night to see if I have it and give further instructions. Now the question is, what are we going to do about it?"

John's cell phone rang again. He checked it. The number was withheld. He answered, dreading what he might hear.

It was the voice.

"Why are you in the police building? I warned you not to do that, didn't I? I'm positive that I did."

"How do you know where I am?" John swallowed.

"Oh, don't insult me. Do you think I'd be stupid enough to let you do your own thing without somebody watching you?"

"Look, you know if you kill him you won't get the money. There'll be no reason for me to give it to you any more. And why should you be afraid of cops? You're a mastermind, and you have hostage the only one that could keep up with you."

"It's not the cops that worry me. You have until tomorrow night. Don't break any more rules, or he really dies. I know where I can find another person you're somewhat attached to, so he is expendable." The beeping told John and Lestrade that the voice had hung up.

"Bloody heck," John said, resting his forehead on both hands with his elbows supported on Lestrade's desk, "He's serious. So what do you think we should do? Do you think we should try to find him and do a sort of raid to rescue Sherlock, or should we give him what he wants?"

Lestrade leaned back in his chair and tapped a pencil against his desk.

"Normally, I'd say never let the criminal run the show. But it's too risky. The moment we busted in the door, Sherlock would have a bullet through his head. No, I think we should try to meet his demands, and after we have Sherlock safe and sound we can try to bring the kidnappers down. But where on earth are we going to get the money?"

"I have no idea. I don't have much; can't even afford my own place. Sherlock and I have to share. I don't know."

* * *

><p>They spent all night and the next day trying to think of some way they could get the money. But they weren't even close to finding an answer when John's phone rang about five o' clock the next evening. He answered anxiously.<p>

"Do you have the money?" the voice asked. John looked at Lestrade, and Lestrade nodded his head.

"Yes. Yes, we do."

"You're not a very good liar, John. I know you don't have it." John could hear the smile in Moriarty's voice.

"Fine, okay, you're right. We don't have it."

"I'm going to send you something, John." This time he did not sound pleased. John's phone blipped to inform him he had a new text. "Did you get it?"

John said that he did. He opened the text and saw a picture that sent chills to his heart. Lestrade peered over John's shoulder to see, too. It was Sherlock in a small, white, brightly lit room. A huge mug had his hand tightly clamped over Sherlock's mouth and nose to keep him still, and he was holding with his other hand a pistol against Sherlock's head. Sherlock's strange, steel-grey eyes looked right into the camera.

John held the phone back up and spoke into it.

"Stop it right now. Just…stop it! We're working on it, but five hundred thousand dollars isn't the easiest thing to get your hands on. Since you know everything, you know that we're trying, it's not that we're just sitting around doing nothing! Do not have that trigger pulled."

"I know. I know you're working on it, but you're not working hard enough. Criminals work on schedule, you know, and I need that five hundred thousand. Alright. You have more time. But every day you don't come up with the money, I'll send you another photograph. And believe me, I don't think you'll like them."

And Moriarty hung up.

"Let's see that picture again," Lestrade said, quickly. John pulled it up. He had the same idea. Lestrade called out to one of the men working at Scotland Yard, "Hey, let's get a print out of this, and hurry up!"

Soon they had an enhanced and enlarged print-out of the image that had only been viewable on John's phone. Lestrade laid it on his desk and he and John bent over it.

"Let's take a look at this then," Lestrade muttered, "and see if we can't find out where they are by the background."

"Well," John said, squinting at the picture and trying to shut out the image of Sherlock and the thug so he could focus on the details of the room behind them, "There's what looks like a dentist's or doctor's examination chair in behind them…"

"And there's a clock on the wall, showing 6:43. That was ten minutes ago," Lestrade added, "It also looks like there's a counter and sink in the background…looks like some sort of medical place. But there's nothing to give us a clue which one."

"Well I can't imagine them holding him in a medical exam room that's still in use. We need a list of doctor, optical doctor, and dentist offices; or anything medical really, that are closed. One more thing. It looks…it looks like there might be…yes, that looks like a sort of plaque. On the wall, in the background."

He leaned in, studying it closely.

"Hey, can we zoom in on this right here?" he asked, growing excited. The image was scanned into one of the computers and they focused on the plaque and moved in. Their hope was that if they could read the name or names on the plaque, they could discover which office was being used. Their hopes were dashed, however, when the picture only became a blur at that close of a range.

John threw up his hands, and Lestrade sighed.

"Tell you what we'll do," Lestrade said, "Notify the press."

"The press? Why do you want them getting involved?" John asked, raising one eyebrow.

"We'll tell 'em what's happened, and get them to tell everyone for us that we can't do it by ourselves and we're counting on the city to help us raise the money."

"You mean take donations," John said, the realization dawning on his face, "Got it. I'll start calling all the TV stations."

"And I'll get the men working on contacting every newspaper, radio station, and bulletin board in London. We'll do this thing.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Okay, so getting in touch with the press isn't exactly the brightest option they could have gone with. *shrug* Not to mention it would kind of make Scotland Yard look totally inept if they were asking the public to help raise a ransom for a kidnap victim, instead of just handling it and busting the bad-guys. I guess we'll put it down to desperation and lack of ideas. 'Cause that's how it felt like in the dream. <strong>


	3. No News: Not Always Good News

**Author's Note: The guys' first attempts at trying to raise the ransom. I know, I know, it's kind of a hair-brained scheme, but they have nothing to go on in the investigation and they're desperate. Desperation often results in stupid ideas. ;) Hope you enjoy it!**

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><p>John picked up a phone directory of London that had been lying on the floor next to Lestrade's desk and thumbed through it. He stopped on a page that began with a T word and ran his finger down the list of numbers until he got what he wanted. He dialed the number and perched on the edge of the desk while he waited for someone to answer. A young lady picked up the phone.<p>

"Channel Twelve News, may I help you?"

"Yeah, we have a story for you. You know Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective?"

"I've heard of him, yes."

"He's being held for ransom, and I should know. I'm John Watson."

"Details?"

John told her what had happened so far and what they were trying to do. She listened attentively and then asked him to hold while she put him through to the boss.

Finally the phone picked up again. A deep, friendly voice came through.

"My assistant has just informed me of your story. Could you give me the details?"

John obliged.

"First of all let me tell you I'm so sorry for Mr. Holmes," the man said, not at all sincerely, "And we will put it in the news just as soon as we can fit it in."

"How soon will that be?" John asked.

"Probably tomorrow afternoon. Will that work for you?"

"Will it work for me? These are heartless criminals! Didn't you listen to me? If we wait another day the chances are he'll be dead."

"I'm sorry but we're full right now. We'll put it on just as soon as we can, got it? I'm sorry."

And he hung up. John slammed the phone down on the desk in frustration, startling Lestrade, before he picked it back up again and dialed the next number.

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><p>John put the phone down and rubbed his eyes. He was tired and frustrated.<p>

Lestrade walked back into the office. He'd been elsewhere working with the rest of the men at Scotland Yard to contact the other forms of the press.

"Any luck?" he asked John. John shook his head, then said,

"None to speak of. Some of them are going to get it in tomorrow, but most of them sounded like they're not going to try to get it in at all. There's a press conference scheduled for tomorrow evening, but we'll have gotten another call by then. You?"

"The same story with me, pretty much."

John rubbed his eyes and yawned again. Lestrade noticed.

"Look, why don't you get a few hours of sleep? We'll go mad if we keep ourselves up for days."

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><p>The next morning Lestrade and John watched the morning news expectantly. Nothing. At all.<p>

"Come on!" Lestrade said disgustedly, "That's it? Some kid making college at fourteen and an old woman with a pet deer are all they're going to talk about?"

"Don't they see," John said, "that if they don't help us out, they'll have more horror stories than they can cope with for the news, 'cause Sherlock won't be able to stop criminals anymore. He'll be dead!"

Luckily, several radio stations and the newspaper put it in the morning news, and by five o' clock they had collected several thousand dollars, but nothing close to five hundred thousand. The phone blipped. John looked up at Lestrade, dreading what he would see when he pulled up the message.

He looked at his phone. The screen read:

_You still haven't gotten it, have you?_

John texted back,

_No, but we have some. We're working on it._

The next message:

_I'm sending you a picture, John. Take a good look._

The phone beeped as the picture came in. John almost didn't want to open it, but the desire to see if his friend was alive engulfed his fears. Sherlock was in a different room this time. It was a large, empty, bare, white room, almost like the inside of a warehouse. It was glaringly illuminated with florescent lighting, showing the main image in bright relief.

Sherlock was standing backed against a wall with his lower arms crossed in front of his face to shield it. Four men surrounded him, and one was in the act of throwing a punch toward Sherlock's head. The phone rang. John jumped and answered it quickly. In the background John could hear echoing scuffling and a shout now and then, like an indoor basketball game was in progress where the speaker was. The voice came through.

"Did you get it?"

"Yes."

"This time he has the chance to fight back. Next time it won't be like that. This time he's doing a decent job of defending himself. In fact, he's just knocked the teeth out of Henry. Next time he won't be permitted to try. It's up to you to make sure there's not a next time." The phone went dead.

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><p>The press conference came and went that evening, and the next morning all the news channels in the city were showing the story of Sherlock's capture, complete with the photographs that had been sent. All the newspaper headlines were screaming out the news, and the radio stations were updating everyone on the crises.<p>

Money was steadily flowing in, and John's hopes began to rise. He knew they would not have the amount for several more days, but at least they were getting somewhere, and he found it encouraging to watch the numbers rise with each pledge that came in.

That evening, John was in Lestrade's office, and they were waiting for the next call. It was 4:45.

"Well, we're moving along, aren't we?" Lestrade said, then added hopefully, "I guess if we tell him how much we have he might hold off…you know…knocking Sherlock up for today."

"Yeah, maybe. I hope-" John was interrupted by the ring of the phone.

"Yeah, I know," John said, as soon as he picked up the phone, "I know what you're going to say, and no, we haven't got it yet. But we do have most of it, so we were wondering if you could lay off harassing Sherlock today."

"Sorry, already done it," the voice said in a gleeful, falsetto tone. John slammed his hand down on the desk next to him in frustration.

"You're not even giving us a chance. You're just enjoying it. What if we'd had the money when you called?"

"Then he'd have been saved another session! Here's the picture, by the way, thought you'd want to see it."

John looked at the phone. He was so angry he wanted to hit something, but what he saw next made him angrier. Four men were holding Sherlock down on the floor to prevent him from fighting, one man holding each of his limbs. Another man stood over him, kicking him over and over.

John held the phone back up to his face.

"Let me talk to him."

"He can't come to the phone right now, he's a bit preoccupied," the voice said, in a sickening imitation of a polite little girl's voice.

"What, you're still doing it? Stop!"

"I'll stop when you come up with the money, so do it. Fast."

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Okay, that bit where the news was covering only an old lady with a pet deer and a kid making college at fourteen? From my real life experience. There was something big going on that my family and I wanted to know about, but the news wasn't covering it. All it had was ridiculous unimportant stuff stories. The deer and the college kid, to be exact. It was frustrating, and I guess that's why it ended up in the dream. ;)<strong>


	4. The Warehouse

**Author's Note: Monday again! Hopefully a chapter update will cure some of those Monday blues, if you got any. Some of us got off for Thanksgiving week, (my Dad did) but some of us had no such luck. (Me) But hey, cheer up. Things could always be worse...like what's going on with Sherlock at the moment. *evil laugh***

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><p>The next day went by, with the money still flowing in steadily. But it didn't stop the day's picture. It was a structure that looked like it was built from wooden pallets. Sherlock was standing facing it, with his wrists tied firmly to it. A man was beating him with a two-by-two. He looked even thinner than usual, with a flush face. John stared at it a moment, and then a realization dawned on him.<p>

_Have you been feeding him?_ he texted.

_No, why should I?_

The next day dragged by. John and Lestrade figured that they would have enough the next day, but they dreaded the evening's picture. And sure enough, John got a text.

_You haven't got it yet? I don't think you'll have many more photos to add to your album. He can't take much more. Here's what he looks like right now,_ Moriarty texted. The phone blipped, and Lestrade and John froze in shock. The sight that met their horror stricken eyes was a close up of Sherlock's face. He was lying on the floor, his eyes closed, with a trickle of blood dripping from his mouth onto the floor. His face was gaunt and white.

_Look_, John texted hurriedly, _we have the money._

_All of it?_ Came the reply.

_Yes, what do we do now?_

_Get a cab. Take it to Loveloose Street. Get out and stand on the walk, and I'll tell you what to do next. No tricks. Only you and the Chief of Police, or S dies._

John sighed in relief.

_Don't touch him until we get there. We're coming. Can I talk to him?_

_Don't think so,_ Moriarty said, _you could try, but I don't think he can hear you._

_Fine,_ John texted,_ leave him alone. We're coming._

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and turned to Lestrade.

"Come on, let's go. Let's get the money. We're finally getting somewhere!"

"What's he want us to do?" Lestrade asked.

"Take a cab to Loveloose Street. He'll tell us what to do when we get there. You coming or not? Get your coat, Sherlock's waiting."

* * *

><p>They cashed the money at a PIN machine and caught a cab, directing the driver to take them to Loveloose Street. He did, and twenty minutes later found them standing on the sidewalk in a dilapidated part of town. No one walked the streets, next to none cars passed, and all the building looked deserted. A steady drizzle was falling. The phone bleeped.<p>

_You're going smooth so far, don't mess up. Walk halfway down the block, and stop under the street light. Turn to your left, and enter the red door. Follow the hall you find you are in three fourths of the way down, turn right. There is a hallway full of doors, don't go through any of them. Go down the hall to the end. Turn left, and walk to the end of that hall. There are double doors. Go inside._

John texted back, _Right. Don't touch him._

Lestrade and John hurriedly followed Moriarty's instructions. The place was dark and gray, made of concrete floors and blank, white walls. John figured out the strangeness of the pictures.

"Look," he said to Lestrade, "The building we are in is an old warehouse. The building right next to us used to be an old medical office, and I bet they're attached by a door somewhere in here." In a minute they stood before the double doors. They were large, steel doors. They looked at each other, then pushed them open and stepped into the enormous, brightly lit warehouse-room they had seen in the pictures as Sherlock's prison. But Sherlock wasn't there. Instead, John saw the all-too-familiar form of Moriarty, standing and smiling at them. Three thugs stood around, watching with interest.

"What a pleasant surprise!" Moriarty crowed in his ridiculous falsetto voice, "You actually did what I told you! Give me the money, then."

"Uh, _no_," John said, shaking his head, "Let us see Sherlock first."

Moriarty made a pout.

"I don't see what's so interesting about _him_. And I don't think you're in any position to make demands." Then he shrugged. "Alright though, if you insist." He turned to one of the thugs. "Get him."

The mug obediently clomped across the huge room to a little white door that John hadn't noticed before. He went inside, leaving the door ajar, and in a moment reappeared with another thug, supporting Sherlock between them.

He really was a pitiful sight. His face was thin and drawn, blood was on his shirt, and he walked stiffly, though he still, of course, maintained the pride and disdain to pull his arms away from the two men and attempt to walk on his own. John loved him for it.

When they arrived across the room, Sherlock looked up at John, as if noticing him for the first time. His reaction was not what John was expecting. His eyes flashed angrily, and he spat, "What are you doing here! You didn't listen. Don't give it to him. Don't you know what he's using it for? He's-" Sherlock was interrupted by a hard blow in the mouth by one of the thugs standing by. His head snapped back, and then fell forward on his chest, eyes vacant and half closed. The thugs grip tightened on his arms to keep him standing.

Lestrade pulled the money out of his pocket and stepped forward, holding it out toward the criminals.

"It's all here. Count it out and take it. We'll take Sherlock and be out of your way." Moriarty looked interested, but motioned for one of his cronies to take the money. The crook started counting through the money quickly, while Moriarty didn't even watch, but stood staring gloatingly at John and Lestrade. Then an incredible thing happened. The crook, after glancing at Moriarty to make sure he wasn't watching, slipped one of the thousand-dollar bills into his own pocket and immediately exclaimed, "They didn't bring enough! They're a thousand short!"

Moriarty's face turned to one of disappointment, and Lestrade and John's to ones of terror.

"No, he's lying!" John shouted, "I saw him! He shoved the thousand in his own pocket. He stole it! Check his pockets, and you'll see!"

Moriarty shook his head sadly.

"And I thought you were playing along so nicely."

"No really, listen, we did what you said! He's got the money in his pocket!" Lestrade said, angrily. Moriarty didn't seem to hear. A childish smile split his face, and he motioned to the two men holding Sherlock, who by now had revived somewhat.

They led him over to the pallet-made structure and draped him over it, not even bothering to tie him this time. Sherlock rolled his eyes and laid his cheek against the wood, closed his eyes, and sighed wearily, knowing what to expect. John's eyes widened in horror as he realized what was about to happen.

"You know what, boys?" Moriarty said, delightedly, "You're just in time to join us for another session!"

"You can't-" Lestrade started, stepping forward. He was stopped by a mug who pushed him back, grinning.

"No! I said, we brought the money!" John cried. Moriarty shook his head.

"No you didn't! What did you think that would gain you? Tricking me, I mean? Well, now you get to _see_ what it gained you!" Moriarty giggled twistedly. John pulled out a gun. Moriarty looked surprised.

"My! But I'm sure you know you shouldn't have brought that." The gun was knocked out of John's hand by a thug who had approached unnoticed from behind. "And now you've made it even worse for him, haven't you?" he asked, raising one eyebrow. He motioned toward Sherlock.

One of his cronies advanced, and it began. John and Lestrade tried to get to the door to escape the awful sight, but two of the sick crooks barred the way.

So they were forced to watch. Sherlock didn't make a great protest, indeed, he hardly made a sound as he suffered during the entire, terrible ordeal. The only thing that could be heard from him was now and then a small, irrepressible grunt that tore at John each time he heard it, and finally a soft moan of relief when it was over with and the thugs dragged him off the structure, only to let him crumple to the floor, lying still and fainting.

John stepped forward toward him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" he was almost frantic. He got no reply from his friend.

"I want that money," Moriarty said, stepping close to John and making him shrink back a step, " I'm going to make the sessions a little more intense to encourage you to move faster. Instead of just once a day, he'll take a good thumping every four hours."

"You know he won't survive that!" John said furiously, through clenched teeth. He was now kneeling on the floor by Sherlock, checking his pulse.

"Then the only possible thing you could do to help him is to meet my demands. And now, gentlemen, I bid you adieu. Come again soon!" the villain crowed.

"Get out of here, John," Sherlock said hoarsely. He slid his wrist out of John's grasp and gripped his hand a moment before letting go. "Get out of here."

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><p>In a moment John and Lestrade found themselves standing on the sidewalk under a grey, cold sky in the rain. They looked at each other for a moment, trying to break through the cloud of horror at what they had just seen. That one human being could be so cruel to another did not seem possible, and yet they had seen it before their own unwilling eyes. John felt himself grow hot, in spite of the freezing water that trickled down his face; hot with anger, indignation. He clenched his hands in his pockets and set his jaw, calming himself.<p>

"Come on, then, we've got to really hurry if we're going to save Sherlock another trouncing. But I really think we should try and do a bust of some sort this time, even if it takes a little longer to organize. They know Sherlock knows too much. Chances are, when we bring the last bit of the money, they'll just murder him right in front of us. So we need to do something this time."

"Yeah. Don't worry. We'll fix them right," Lestrade agreed, grimly.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: Oh my gosh, the more I post of this story the more embarrassed I am. *blushes in shame* Ugh. Seriously though, if you're reading this and you haven't read any of my other stuff, don't judge it by this story. This one is old, and poorly written. I apologize. :P<strong>


	5. The Payoff

**Author's Note: Did everyone have a good Thanksgiving Day? I am SO EXCITED that the holiday season has finally started. I am listening to Christmas music as I type this, and I don't have to feel guilty about it! YAY! So anyway, happy start of the holidays to you, guys.**

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><p>In a matter of minutes they were back at headquarters, getting together the remaining money and organizing a plan. Unfortunately, it did take some careful planning, and they weren't ready until the next day. John hated the knowledge that every four hours his friend was being subjected to further pain, but he was patient in the planning because he knew if all went well they would soon have Sherlock safe with them. Finally, at 7:24 in the morning:<p>

_Just checking in. I thought you might want to know that this will probably be the last session. Got the money? If not, I'll just send you the last picture so your album will be complete._ Moriarty texted.

_YES. HAVE CASH. LAY OFF IT._ John wrote back in huge text. They were ready. The plan was put into motion as he and Lestrade got into a cab by themselves and drove off to the former destination.

They stepped out of the cab and onto the sidewalk in front of the abandoned warehouse. John and Lestrade took a deep breath, knowing that if they played their parts well, this whole nightmare might be resolved. As they entered the doors and made their way along the hallways toward the storeroom, they felt the pistols under their jackets bumping against them constantly, reminding them of their mission. Finally they pushed through the double-doors and stood in the glare of the storeroom. Moriarty was waiting for them.

"Hello, gents! Got the money? Oh, but I suppose you _must _see your precious Sherlock before you hand it over," he said, sounding extremely wearied of the silly request. He motioned toward two of his thugs, who, as they had done before, disappeared into the small room at the other end of the cavernous space. They took a little longer this time, before they came back out, and when they did, they were dragging a completely unresponsive and seemingly unaware Sherlock between them.

They bore him over to where John and Lestrade stood waiting. John pulled out a thousand dollar bill from his pocket, but pulled his hand back when the same thug as before stepped forward to receive it. He gave it directly into Moriarty's hand. He looked at it, smiled, shoved it into his pocket, and turned to one of his men.

"Alright then. We're done with him, now."

The man smiled evilly and pulled out a gun, training it on Sherlock's heart. He slowly cocked it. John played along, buying time.

"No, wait! What are you doing? He's ours now, you promised! We kept up our side of the bargain," he said, distressed. Moriarty shook his head, looking sorry and explaining, as if to a child the necessity of putting a dog to sleep, the thing that was about to be done.

"Now, don't mistake, I'm as sorry about this as you are. But look at him, John. The kindest thing to do would be to put him out of his misery as quickly as we can." He smiled. John glanced at Lestrade, who nodded almost imperceptibly. They both pulled guns from their jackets, aiming them at the man who trained the gun on Sherlock and at Moriarty himself.

"I think you'll do no such thing," Lestrade growled, and the next minute Scotland Yard people were bursting in through the doors behind them and through the door that led to the medical facility. Instantly all was confusion. Every one of the thugs pulled out automatics or pistols, including Moriarty, and there was shouting and gunfire. The men who held Sherlock instantly dropped him on the floor and joined the mêlée.

John shoved his pistol in his belt and rushed over to Sherlock's still form. He passed his arms under his friend's arms and around his chest and dragged him to a corner of the room, slightly away from the combat. He laid him down on the floor on his back.

Sherlock's face was deathly white for the most part, but his forehead and cheeks were bright with fever induced by his wounds. His eyes were closed, his body limp. Blood, dried and otherwise, smeared on his forehead from a cut there. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth and stained his shirt in several places.

John quickly pressed his ear against Sherlock's chest, listening with all his might, stopping his other ear against the gunshots with his hand. It was there, but just barely. He could die any moment, and would, if he didn't get the proper attention, and could easily even then.

John retained his coolness, like the army surgeon he was. He swiftly and efficiently looked his friend over to get an assessment of all his wounds. Sherlock stirred and moaned in intense pain.

"Can you hear me, Sherlock?" John was asking.

Sherlock barely had strength to murmur the words, "This hallucination is a nice change from the rest. You sound like John, Moriarty. Time for another session? What's it to be this time? Another beating? Boring. Unimaginative. Archaic, really."

"No, those sessions are over. You're not hallucinating, but you are very sick and injured so I need you to do what I tell you, for once. This is John. Alright, tell me how much it hurts."

"Badly."

"How badly?"

A small smile creased Sherlock's thin face.

"Gunfire. You brought the police into this. Who's winning?"

"Sherlock, pay attention! You are dangerously injured. I'm trying to help you, but you have to cooperate."

"What…what was the question?" His eyes, that had in the first place been only open the smallest percentage, closed again. He seemed completely uninterested, and rather wearied by John's pestering him.

"On a scale of one to ten, one being minor and ten being extreme, what kind of pain are you in?"

"Twelve."

"Alright. Where does it hurt the most? I need to know quickly."

"Did you give it to him?"

"What?"

Sherlock opened his eyes just long enough to roll them.

"The money. Did you give Moriarty the money?"

"That's not important, Sherlock, I need you to focus. I'm going to see if you have any broken bones or internal bleeding or anything like that. Stay with me, here. Don't black out on me," John said, briskly.

"You shouldn't have let him have it, John, it was stupid of you. What good did it do? You don't know- oh, heck, what are you doing?" Sherlock interrupted himself in a gasp of pain which he then turned into a weak irritated growl at the end. John was examining Sherlock's left side, where several ribs were apparently broken. A peculiar whistling sound when Sherlock breathed alerted John that one of his lungs might be punctured.

"-what he's doing…with it," Sherlock finished, though his voice was sunk almost to an inaudible whisper, and it seemed to cost him great pain just to draw another breath, "I'm not surprised it should end…like this. I…expected it, really…" His eyes rolled back and he went still and limp again. John grew urgent.

"Stay awake!" he cried, over and over again, now totally oblivious of the gunfire around him, knowing full well if his friend fell asleep he might never wake again. He carefully put his arm under Sherlock's head and pulled his cell phone out with his free hand. He dialed a number into it and shouted over the noise,

"Get in here, now! Now, now!"

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><p><strong>Author's Note: *makes a strange hysterical noise while hiding my face in my hands* I am so sorry, guys. I was a lot younger, okay? But can I just say, if you are still reading this, you are a trooper and I salute you. You're amazing! ;)<strong>


	6. Bouncing Back

**Author's Note: So yep. This is the very last chapter, guys. The last one. I actually do kind of like the scene in this one. In the ambulance, I mean. It was very vivid in the dream. Anyway, leave me a note and tell me how you liked it! Thank you SO MUCH to each and every one of you who have commented so far, for each and every one of your individual reviews. They're awesome. ;) And do stick around after the story; I have a special Christmas announcement for all my lovely readers!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. Just the story. And I'm not making any money from it. I believe I said that at the beginning of the story, but just wanting to reiterate so there's no room for misinterpretation. ;P**

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><p>In what seemed like an eternity the medics were in with a stretcher. By now the skirmish had ended, and all of the offenders were either arrested or fled.<p>

Moriarty was one of the escaped.

The medics took one look at Sherlock and called for a helicopter to be ready when they reached the hospital. Quickly and carefully they put him onto the stretcher and wheeled him into the ambulance. Lestrade and John clambered into the back as well, and sat on one side of the stretcher while the medics attending him stood on the other. They attached an oxygen mask and numerous tubes and needles to Sherlock, in a near-hopeless bid to keep him alive until they reached the hospital.

Lestrade and John knew better than to interrupt the medics' work with questions, and they were almost afraid to hear the answer of the one burning question that consumed their minds at the moment. They stared intently at Sherlock's face, and John's heart leapt when his friend slowly turned his head on the pillow and looked at him and Lestrade.

"I need to ask you something," he said, his voice hoarse and quiet.

"Not now, Sherlock. The longer you stay awake the more it will hurt; the medic's going to put you out so you won't feel the…so you won't feel anything," John said. The medic gently grasped Sherlock's arm in one hand and held the syringe in the other.

"No, not yet!" Sherlock said, his tone so urgent the medic hesitated. "Just a little longer. Please, I have something to say."

John nodded at the medic, who backed off but stood ready to administer the tranquilizer as soon as he was permitted.

"Lestrade, you're the only D.I. in Scotland Yard with any grit, so I expect you to keep things in check. You are one of the few people in the world who have a brain; use it. You won't have to keep London safe on your own, though; John will be there to help."

"Sherlock, you're talking like you're going to…die, or something. Cut it out, will ya?" Lestrade said, his uneasiness evident in his voice.

Sherlock smiled weakly and attempted a shrug.

"As Moriarty said, that's what people do. John…" He paused, gathering his breath. His body had begun to tremble with the violence of the pain that engulfed it, and sweat gleamed on his face and neck.

"Sherlock, let him give you the shot now. You can tell me later."

"No! Not yet. _I have. Something. To say." _He left no doubt that he was still in control of the situation, and John reluctantly nodded at the medic, who again stepped back.

"John, I want you to look after Molly and Mrs. Hudson. They need you, John. Mrs. Hudson needs someone to fuss over, and Molly...I expect they'll need help coping, as I think you put it. Look after them, won't you John?"

"I will. I will."

It wasn't much, but it was all John could manage. Sherlock sighed in relief and closed his eyes. The medic looked uncertainly at John, not knowing whether or not the injection was now called for. Sherlock opened his eyes again and said,

"I'm liable to pass out any time, but anything you can do to help it along…"

The medic administered the tranquilizer immediately, and Sherlock was plunged into oblivion. John lifted his friend's cold hand from the stiff white sheet it lay on and squeezed it with both of his. He bowed his head and prayed as hard as he knew how.

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><p>Sherlock was rushed into the operating room at the hospital once they reached it, for he had suffered internal damage from his many beatings. He was in critical condition in the trauma ward for days, and John never left his side until he was stable.<p>

There were times when it seemed that the great detective would not make it, and John felt no hope of his recovery. But slowly and surely he was improving. And finally, one day, he woke up feeling well enough to sit up, eat, and talk.

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><p>"There you are," he said rather crossly, when John entered the room from taking lunch in the cafeteria. "I suppose all this time you've been sitting by me and hovering over me and making a big fuss about me, generally. Oh heck, but this stuff is disgusting," he said, staring in disdain at the food a nurse had just brought him.<p>

John smiled in relief and shook his head.

"Nope, not a bit of it. Well, not the fuss bit, anyway. I have been keeping a close eye on you though; being the jerk you are, we were afraid you might slip off if we weren't careful. And you gave it your best shot, too."

"I'm going to get out of here as soon as these balloon-headed doctors will let me. I'm not lying around here having my mind bored into extinction when I could be out there doing something really _fun!_"

"Yeah? And what really fun thing would that be?" John asked, familiar enough with his friend's idea of "fun" to know what to expect.

"Really, John, I did get snappish with you about giving Moriarty that dough, but really it's the best thing that could have happened! He's using it for an international child-smuggling plot, using children, from China and Japan, mostly, as labor to build explosives. Not little fire-crackers, either, that just blow a car up or something, the real deal ones. The only thing is, I have no idea how he gets the money to the suppliers, or who the suppliers are, or what they want the money for," Sherlock explained with relish. John smiled. He knew Sherlock wasn't excited about the crimes, but the prospect of stopping it.

"And we got to put an end to it, right?"

"Unless you have any better plans?"

"None that I can think of."

"Alright, then. Could you ride back to the flat and bring me my laptop? I need to get on my website. I have a lot of profiles on there of known criminals I want to look over. And I might see if I can get into Scotland Yard's files, they might have some interesting information that would be useful. Oh, and bring me a sandwich or something, too. Let's get started!"

THE END

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><p><strong>Author's Note: There it is, guys! The end. I hope you liked it! Now for the big announcement: Christmas is coming. And to celebrate it, I want to write a Christmas oneshot in every fandom I am part of between now and the 25th. That would be The Hobbit, SHERLOCK, and The A-Team. Here's where you come in- I'm taking prompts. If there's something in particular you would like to see, send me the idea in a review, (not a PM. That gets too complicated) and I will decide on one to use. Or, if I can decide, I might just use elements from all of them! Just as a heads up, though, guys, I don't do slash. Looking forward to seeing what you guys think!<strong>

**P.S. SO GREAT to see you back, John Mitchel! ;) **


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